


Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

by digorykirke



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alastair POV, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Found Family, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Rivalry, Song: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, elias has canon compliant alcoholism, yes ragnor fell will make an appearance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:54:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digorykirke/pseuds/digorykirke
Summary: 1977.There's nothing Alastair Carstairs loves more than making music with his sister, Cordelia, and his friend Ariadne. So when Alastair and his band enter a band competition, the prize being five thousand pounds— enough to record their own album— everything seems perfect. Only, there's a catch. His long-time rival from boarding school, Matthew Fairchild, is back in town with his own band, The Merry Thieves, to enter the competition. Only Matthew's lead guitarist, Thomas Lightwood, is ridiculously— no, just tolerably handsome.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs & Cordelia Carstairs, Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood, Ariadne Bridgestock & Alastair Carstairs, Ariadne Bridgestock/Anna Lightwood, Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, James Herondale & Matthew Fairchild
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	1. Somebody to Love

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me while I was listening to "good old fashioned lover boy" by queen while having a chain of iron breakdown and so here it is! dedicated to the ragnor stannies group chat for helping me brainstorm and inspiring a lot of this,,, anyway, thomastair and annaariadne are two of the best tlh ships, argue with the wall

_**Friday, June 4, 1977** _

Alastair bent over to tie the laces of his Doc Martens as his mother fussed over Cordelia.

“Oh, Cordelia,” she said mournfully, “why do you have to wear such clothes,”

“They’re not tattered,” she said, looking down and feeling the material of her shirt between her fingers, “They’re in style. I like them. Stevie Nicks dresses like this,”

“You’re Cordelia Carstairs,” his mother clucked, “Not Stevie Nicks,”

“Yes, Mâmân,” Cordelia said mechanically.

“And where is Esfandiyār going dressed like that?” Elias looked disdainfully over his outfit, eyes catching on his jeans and his steel-toed boots, “You look like a delinquent, Alastair,”

“I had no idea the fashion police were stationed at our home today,” Alastair said dryly, _Besides,_ he thought, _I’d worry about your own problems first._ His eyes wandered to the liquor cabinet and then back to his father. That stupid fucking liquor cabinet. It suddenly occurred to Alastair that if he allowed his father to get too close to an open flame he might just go up in smoke. He shook the thought.

“I’m leaving,” he announced, “I have an important matter to attend to,”

“What important matter?” Cordelia asked.

“Always out and about,” Elias muttered, “can’t you ever stay at home like a good son?”

 _Can’t you stay sober like a good father?_ Alastair thought.

“Elias,” Sona said in a shrill voice. Elias simply shrugged and turned his attention back to his newspaper. “It’s not my fault if he amounts to nothing, after all I’ve done for him,”

Alastair had heard enough, “I’ll be home soon,” he said roughly to his mother and Cordelia.

“Can I come?” Cordelia chirped up.

“Sorry, Layla,” he responded, “No,” He wanted to be alone. Maybe kick some rocks, and carry on conversations in his head with his father in which he’d finally tell him off for being such a wanker, for making Alastair hide the evidence of his affliction from Cordelia, for being nothing like the noble hero everyone else thought he was, the noble hero Alastair _wished_ he was.

He let his feet automatically carry him to the one place that would make him feel better- the record shop a couple of streets down from home- where he could find anything he wanted to listen to, from The Beatles to the Rolling Stones, without worrying about Elias or his fraught home life.

He pushed open the door, stamping the mud from his boots on the entrance mat, looking around the shop, and heading to the familiar rock section. Specifically the Queen section.

Alastair loved Queen. Everything about their music was so _new_ , so unlike most things he’d heard before. And _Freddie Mercury_. His heart beat faster thinking about Freddie Mercury and the performances he’d been him in. He was incredible.

He leaned forward to reach for their latest album, _A Night at the Opera,_ and then backed up, accidentally walking into someone. Damn it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning around to see a girl who looked about his age, with deep brown skin and long black hair in a braid to the middle of her back. His eyes flitted to the pile of records in her arms.

“It’s alright,” she said, adjusting how she was holding the records. 

“ _A Night At The Opera_ ,” he said, noticing the one on top of her stack, “You like Queen?”

She seemed to hesitate before speaking, “Is there anyone in the world who doesn’t?” she said with a small smile.

“What’s your favorite?” he asked eagerly, “off the album?”

She thought a moment, “Love of My Life, maybe?” she said, “Or maybe ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,”

“Everyone likes ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’”, he grinned, “Freddie Mercury’s vocals on it are bloody amazing,” He paused, wondering if he should’ve said that in front of a girl, but she didn’t seem bothered.

“He’s an incredible musician,” she agreed.

“He’s Persian, you know,” Alastair announced proudly, popping up the collar of his jean jacket.

“I thought he was Indian,” she answered, “I take it you’re Persian?”

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling, “And you’re Indian?”

“Yeah,” she said lightly, “you’re quite the detective,”

“I think he’s both,” Alastair continued, “a lot of people don’t know that,”

She looked down at the record in her hands and then back up at him, smiling.

“Wait!” he realized, “I don’t even know your name,”

“Ariadne,” she answered, outstretching her hand, “Ariadne Bridgestock,”

“I’m Alastair Carstairs,” he smiled, shaking her hand.

“Well, Alastair,” she said graciously, “I think I’ve got to get going home soon, otherwise I’ll never learn how to play ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,” she held up the record.

“You play?” his ears perked up.

“Yeah,” she smiled, “I play the drums,”  
“Do you? I play the guitar, and my sister plays the bass,”

“So she’s a regular John Deacon, and you’re a Brian May,”  
“I wish I was half as good as Brian May,” Alastair sighed, “And you’re Roger Taylor,”

“We’ve got the whole matching set,” she teased, “except for Freddie Mercury,”  
“We can both be Freddy,” he replied, beaming. “You have to see my collection,” Alastair said excitedly, “I have a few you’d love if you like _A Night at the Opera_. And you have to meet my sister, Cordelia. You’ll love her, and wait till you can see what she can do with her bass guitar!”

* * *

And that was how they became fast friends, at a record shop, the summer of 1977. 

Ariadne had met Cordelia and loved her immediately, “Why would you hide your immensely cooler sister from me?” she teased, and they met almost every day that summer, listening to records together, from David Bowie to Elton John to The Temptations, and what had brought them together, Queen.

“You have so many records,” Ariadne had gaped, leafing through the stacks piled around his room, “How did you collect so many?”

“My cousin Jem sends them for me and Cordelia’s birthdays, and for Christmas and all,” he answered, “What do you want to listen to?”

“Let’s listen to Fleetwood Mac?” Cordelia suggested, “Their last record was off the wall,”

“I liked it too,” Alastair answered, reaching for his guitar instead of for the vinyl, “so let’s play it instead,”

* * *

_**Saturday, August 20, 1977.** _

“We could start our own band,” Ariadne said dreamily, one day, as Alastair carefully placed the Fleetwood Mac vinyl on his record player, gently setting the needle, “Maybe we could get as big as Queen, even,”

Cordelia enthusiastically nodded.

“That’s a nice thought,” Alastair shook his head, laughing, “Our band could be called ‘king’, maybe,” he joked.

“I’m serious,” she sat up, “You, me, Cordelia. And I know you can sing,”  
“What gives you that idea?” Alastair scoffed, “I can’t sing,”

“We’ve all heard you,” Cordelia crossed her arms, “When you think no one else is listening,”

“You’re bloody good,” Ariadne said flatly.

Cordelia nodded. “And the songs I found written in that notebook—”  
“Where did you find my notebook?” he said sharply, eyebrows furrowing.

Cordelia looked sheepish, “You left it in your coat pocket and I found it when I was doing the laundry,”

He silently cursed at himself for leaving it in there.

“Point is,” Ariadne interrupted, “between the three of us, we could do this,”

“Or we could at least try,” Cordelia interjected, “Please, Alastair joon,”

There was a moment of silence as Alastair looked between them.

Finally, he threw up his hands, grinning, “Which song were you thinking?”

“Oh, thank you, Alastair!” Cordelia ran towards him and wrapped her arms around him.

“Anything for you, Layla,” he chuckled.

* * *

_**Friday, September 24, 1977.** _

Alastair adjusted the position of his guitar case on his shoulder, tightening his grip on its strap, before knocking on the stage door. There was no response. He knocked again. 

The door swung open, revealing a middle-aged man with what seemed to be a permanently infuriated expression plastered on his face or at least the half that wasn’t obscured by his thick brown beard. Unfortunately, for his surplus of facial hair, he was lacking any hair actually _on_ his head.

“What?” the man hissed, “banging on the door when I’ve got customers in here,”

“We’re the band,” Cordelia supplied, “We’re playing here tonight,”

“What is this?” he scoffed, looking over Cordelia, then Ariadne, and then finally Alastair, “a band of foreigners,"

Alastair said nothing, silently fuming. Who did this man think he was to speak to him like that? “You said we could play here earlier,” he said slowly.

He looked skeptical, “What’s your band called, kid?”

“Shah,” he replied.

“What?”

“Shah,” he repeated, louder this time, slightly irritated, “It means ‘king’ in Persian,”

“No one speaks Persian in London, lad,” he sneered.

“I speak Persian and I’m right here,” he said, voice hard, trying not to show how his hands were shaking, “in London,”

“I don’t see it on the booking list,” the man said, “A band called ‘Shanks’ is going to be playing here tonight,”

“You must’ve written it wrong,” Ariadne said, interrupting, “That’s us,”

“Maybe if you had a bloody regular name in bloody English, no one would write it wrong,” his nostrils flared as he closed the door.

Alastair quickly pushed back on the door, keeping it from closing. “Let us in, otherwise you have no one to play your pub tonight,” Alastair said, turning his nose up.

“Are you even old enough to be in a pub?”

“I’m old enough to play in one,” he answered indignantly. _Come on, wanker,_ he thought, _Please._

The man glared at him, “You better not mess this up,” the man growled, “Come on. Stupid student band,” he muttered under his breath.

Alastair felt his blood heat as he followed him in, his boots dragging on the floor. He set his guitar case on the ground, opening it and setting up the equipment.

“Are you ready?” he asked, directing the question to Ariadne and Cordelia.

“We’re gonna rock their socks off,” Cordelia joked, digging her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket.

“Good,” Alastair smiled, “Remember the setlist,”

“Starting off with ‘Somebody to Love’,” Ariadne affirmed. 

“It’s time,” yelled the man from earlier. 

Alastair nodded to Cordelia and Ariadne.

He walked on stage, feeling the lights shine on him, although they weren’t that bright. The stage wasn’t all that big either— after all, this was a small pub, but it might as well have been the biggest stage in the world. 

“Who are they?” he heard someone whisper in the crowd, their voice dripping with contempt.

He shook it off and took a deep breath, strumming the first chord in ‘Somebody to Love’ quietly, and them muting the strings.

“Can anybody find me,” he sang into the mic, the only sound in the pub being his voice reverberating, and then Cordelia and Ariadne’s joining in on the harmonies, “somebody to love?”

He felt Cordelia take a sharp breath as she started playing. He looked over to her, watching her hands move across the fretboard of the bass guitar, her head bobbing slightly as she played.

Ariadne played the beat steadily, twirling the drumsticks in her hand.

“Each morning I get up I die a little,” he sang, “can barely stand on my feet,”

He adjusted the microphone stand in front of him with both hands and looked towards the audience, who were starting to move to the music. He felt a rush, and felt his worry replaced with confidence, “Take a look in the mirror and cry,”

For the next four minutes, it felt as if there were no one else in the world except for him, his guitar, and the music. “Find me, somebody to love,” his lone voice rang through the room. “Find me, somebody to love,” he sang again, this time with Ariadne and Cordelia on the harmonies. Ariadne played a hard quick drum beat, and Alastair felt something rise in him as if the air were charged with electricity. 

“Somebody,” he sang.

“Somebody,” the audience echoed.

“Somebody,” he swung the mic with one hand.

“Somebody,” they echoed again.

Alastair kept playing and singing, losing himself in the music, strumming, and vocalizing, as if he’d finally come alive, “Find me, find me, find me,” he finished, as the music ended, his heart beating fast.

He glanced to the side of the stage, glimpsing the angry manager with his jaw dropped.

 _Close your mouth,_ he thought, smirking, _You might catch flies._

“Next song,” he whispered to Cordelia and Ariadne, starting to play again, enraptured by the music.


	2. Keep Yourself Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited so don't mind typos! also i don’t know if you’ve noticed but every chapter has a song as the chapter title !

From then on it was more of the same. Shah played every pub, festival, and event in a ten-mile radius to clapping, standing ovations, and the happiest times Alastair had known in his life thus far.

Cordelia had even taken to putting eyeliner on him, saying it would make him look more like a rock star in a magazine, much to his chagrin. She stood there, as he sat in her bedroom, with the eyeliner uncapped in her hand.

She brought the pencil to his eye, but not before Alastair backed his head away.

“Don’t stab me in the eye!” Alastair said, rubbing his eye.

“I wasn’t planning on it!” Cordelia retorted, “Come on,” she said, “If you move so much, I won’t be able to,”

“I can do it,” Ariadne volunteered with a smirk.

“I don’t trust you to do it,” Alastair joked, “You may actually stab me in the eye on purpose,”

“Trust me,” Cordelia winked.

“Alright,” Alastair said skeptically, leaning back forward, “Don’t stab me in the eye,”

Cordelia was hard at work for a few moments, applying it, smudging it a bit, tilting her head.

“Hey, Mick Jagger,” Cordelia teased, stepping back to view her handiwork, “It looks nice,”

Alastair stood up and walked to Cordelia’s mirror, running his finger lightly on his waterline, the black rubbing off on it.

“Don’t smudge it too much,” Cordelia warned. Alastair nodded.

“Really brings out your eyes,” Ariadne scrunched her nose, coming up behind him, hugging him and resting her chin on his shoulder, “It really does look good, though, Alastair,”

He had only grinned, watching his reflection in the mirror.

* * *

**_Friday, October 28th, 1977_ **

‘Alastair joon,” Sona said, kissing his forehead, after one of their performances, “I’m so proud of you and your sister. You know that, right?”

“Yes, mâmân,” he smiled down at her, “I know,”

But the happiness he felt was undercut by the fact that his father wasn’t here. But why would he have expected him to come, anyway? Not only did Elias show less interest in him than he did in his glass bottles, but he disapproved of everything having to do with the band.

“We played a great gig tonight,” Cordelia brought up at dinner that night.

“I wish you and Esfandiyār would focus on things that really matter instead of your silly game,” Elias grumbled, “but instead, you two wish to throw your lives away,”

“It’s not throwing our lives away,” Alastair said sharply, annoyed.

“Why can’t you make something of yourself instead of carrying on like this?” Elias snapped.

“Father,” Cordelia whispered, her eyes wide and flitting between him and Alastair.  
“Come on, Layla,” Alastair said, standing up with his plate, eyes fixed on his father, “We’ll take our dinner upstairs,”

Cordelia looked sad, hanging her head as she picked up her plate and followed.

“Alastair—” Sona began.

“It’s fine,” he cut her off as he climbed the stairs, Cordelia behind him.

“Elias,” he heard his mother lean over to his father, speaking in hushed tones. That was all he heard before he hurried up to his room.

* * *

**_Saturday, November 5th, 1977_ **

Shah was playing again at a pub in Soho, playing their usual arrangements of a few songs, maybe David Bowie, or Fleetwood Mac, or something else Cordelia, Ariadne, and he had been listening to a lot recently.

Cordelia and Ariadne had brought up playing one of Alastair’s songs from his notebook but Alastair had refused thus far. Eventually, he’d have to play them, but right now, they didn’t feel good enough. And he wasn’t sure he could endure getting up in front of everyone and singing what was in that notebook— laying himself bare so that everyone could see right through him.

Alastair was thinking of this dilemma when a boy approached them after the show as he was packing his guitar in its case. 

“Hello,” he called to him, “You’re the band who played today?” He asked though it was clear it wasn’t a question.

Alastair turned around to face him. “Yes,” he answered, taking stock of his appearance.

The boy couldn’t have been much older than Alastair and had cropped red hair and stern features, and instead of the grungy casual attire of everyone else in the pub, he was wearing a pressed gray suit. Quite posh of him, he supposed.

“I’m Charles Fairchild,” he said, outstretching his hand one at the time to all three of them, “From the Consul Talent Agency. I’ve been following your band for some time,” he said, holding out a business card to Alastair, “If you need a manager. Think about it,”

“Alright,” Alastair said, taking the card, glancing down at both sides before looking back up. “Aren’t you too young to be a manager?” he blurted out.

“My mother owns the agency,” he adjusted his collar, flashing a smile, “Kind of a family business. And it’s never too late to get a head start on success,”

Alastair nodded, secretly thinking that last bit sounded like something Charles had picked out of a motivational pamphlet.

“Right,” Ariadne said, snatching the card out of Alastair’s hand as he stood there dumbstruck.

“You know where to find me,” he bowed out, walking away.

“This agency is interested in _us_?” Cordelia asked, peering over Ariadne’s shoulder at the card.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Ariadne grinned, “We’re spectacular,”

“Yes, we are,” Alastair smiled, “and this is only the beginning,” he added, plucking the card out of Ariadne’s hand.

“Only that bloke looked like a sleaze,” Cordelia smiled slightly, looking in the direction Charles had left.

“Him wearing that get up here was a bit funny,” Alastair agreed, tucking the business card inside his jacket pocket, “but anything for professionalism, I suppose,”

“Are you going to call him?” Ariadne asked, her eyes going to the pocket he had put the card in.

“Maybe,” he answered, voice tinged with uncertainty, “We should think about it for a bit,”

Ariadne nodded.  
“Grab a bite to eat?” Cordelia asked, “I’m famished,”

“Me too,” Alastair agreed, swinging the guitar case over his shoulder, “Let’s go,”

* * *

**_Thursday, November 10th, 1977_ **

Alastair and Cordelia sat side by side at another awkward family dinner, Elias absorbed in spearing his vegetables with his fork, his eyebrows furrowed, and Sona looking nervously between Alastair and him.

They all sat in uncomfortable silence, knowing one word from any of them might set off a chain reaction.

His mother must’ve spoken to his father after the other day, because Elias’ snarky and unwanted comments had partially ceased— not entirely, but it was certainly better than before.

Unfortunately, the occasional comments about Alastair amounting to nothing and dressing like a criminal still slipped through sometimes.

But tonight, it was silent as Elias sniffed and adjusted his reading glasses, continuing to eat as if nothing was wrong. Or it was silent until the telephone began ringing.

“Who’s calling now?” Elias groaned, “is it that Bridgestock girl again?”

“I’ll get it,” Cordelia said eagerly, getting up and dashing to the line. “Hello?” she said into the phone, holding it up to her ear.

The only thing Alastair could hear was a faint murmur from the other end, “Oh, alright,” Cordelia answered, “You want to speak to Alastair?” She covered the phone with her hand, “Alastair, come here!”

Alastair stood up from the table, setting his fork down on his plate, and took the phone from Cordelia.

Elias gave him a dirty look, “What is this all about?” he directed at Cordelia. Cordelia didn’t answer him as she handed the phone to Alastair.

“Alastair speaking,” he said, wrapping the telephone cord absentmindedly around his hand.

“Alastair,” the voice came from the other end, “It’s Charles. Charles Fairchild. I believe we met the other day?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I remember,” 

_It’s Mister Dressed for Success,_ he thought to himself, _Mister Motivational Packet Plagariser,_

That thought made him laugh before he realized Charles had been talking.

“What did you say?” Alastair asked, “The line cut off,”

“Have you come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of?”

“Not as of right now, no,” he answered.

“Well, I’ve found something big,” Charles said, “And if you do come to a conclusion, I may be able to get you in,”

“Get us in to what?” Alastair furrowed his brow

“A Battle of the Bands, of sorts,” he said, “Prize being five thousand pounds,”

“ _Five thousand pounds?_ ” Alastair almost dropped the phone, “Bloody hell. That’s a lot of money,”

 _Enough money to record an album, even. Pay off more expenses,_ the thought dawned in his head. Especially since Elias didn’t seem particularly inclined to help the band with anything.   
“Alastair!” Sona scolded from her seat at the table, “Language!”

Alastair didn’t pay attention to her, “I’ve come to a conclusion,” he said, grinning, “We’ve hired you. Wait,” he paused, “I have to ask the others first,”

It was at this moment Alastair realized he’d never given Charles their telephone number. But before he had the chance to think on that further, he heard Charles saying, “Good,” he sounded pleased, “I’m looking forward to it,”

Alastair slammed the phone down back on the base, head spinning. He turned to Cordelia, “Layla!” he said slowly, then turned back around to fix his eyes back to the phone as if trying to process what had just happened, “I think we’ve found our big break,”

* * *

**_Saturday, November 12th, 1977_ **

“So you want to enter,” Charles asked from behind his desk in his mother’s talent agency in yet another pressed suit, but this time it was a navy blue color instead of gray. Though if Charles wanted to dress like the mayor of nowhere, it wasn’t really Alastair’s place to judge.

Alastair also noticed, looking around, that Charles had the smallest little “office”, or maybe it just felt small because his massive ego and dominating sense of self-importance filled up the entire room.

“Of course we do,” Ariadne interjected, “A shot at five thousand pounds doesn’t exactly come around every day,”

Cordelia nodded, “I want to try,”

“Alright,” Charles said, leaning forward over the desk, getting closer to where the three of them were sitting, “You’ll have to pass the preliminary auditions,” he said thoughtfully.

“Bloody hell,” Alastair groaned, “Of course there are preliminary auditions,”

“How many?” Cordelia asked.

“A few,” Charles said, leaning back and crossing his legs, “after all, this is a televised event,”  
“It’s televised?” Ariadne grinned, “why didn’t you mention that before?”

The gears were all clicking in Alastair’s head. This was it. This was really it. They could do this.

“So how is this whole thing going to play out?” he asked, “like what’s the itinerary?”  
“It’ll last a couple of months,” Charles began, “the latter part will be televised, but the preliminary auditions won’t be. Only ten bands can make it to the actual competition,”

“So there’s a competition before the competition,” Cordelia stated.

“Precisely,” Charles nodded.

“When do we start?” Ariadne questioned, “How much time do we have to practice, I mean?”

“One month before preliminaries,” Charles said, “but as your manager, and the person getting you in, if you do manage to win that prize, I get fifteen percent of it,”

“Alright,” Alastair said, sitting up, “You’ve got yourself a deal,”

“Perfect,” Charles smirked, reaching for a stack of papers from his drawer, and handing each of them a pen, “You’ll just need to sign a few things,”

Alastair took a deep breath, uncapping the pen. He was excited about this competition. He was excited about having Charles, no matter how pompous he seemed, on their side. So why did he feel so nervous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't wait for thomas and the merry thieves to get here but yeah i believe in ariadne and alastair's bestieship supremacy ! the inventors of mlm wlw solidarity !


	3. Immigrant Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited, so don't mind typos!

**_Saturday, December 10th, 1977_ **

Alastair unwrapped the tin foil from the burger he had bought, dragging his feet as he walked through the festival grounds where the first round of the preliminary auditions was going to be today. It was cold, but he tried to shake it off, tightening his shoulders. He nodded his head to the beat of ‘More Than A Woman” from _Saturday Night Fever_ , which he’d seen with Cordelia and Ariadne recently, as the band onstage played it, glancing at the lead singer of the band, who looked as if he were trying to snog the microphone. They weren’t half bad though— besides the bit about snogging the mic. He suddenly felt nervous again, the same way he had felt holding the uncapped pen in Charles’ lair— office. Charles’ “office”. If every band was going to do so well, what was to guarantee they’d make it through these auditions?

He moved to rub his eye and then remembered that, once again, at the insistence of Cordelia and Ariadne, he'd let them put eyeliner on him again.

He took a bite of his burger, looking towards the stage and trying to forget about how much his eye itched, chewing slowly, not noticing Cordelia run up to him, “Alastair,” Cordelia said, shaking him, “Come backstage so we can work through a few things on the setlist,”

“Right,” he answered absentmindedly, fixated on the lead singer of the band onstage again. What exactly was he _doing_ with that microphone?

“And you said you wanted to make a few changes to ‘October’?” she asked. That snapped his attention back to Cordelia, as his heart skipped a beat.

“October,” he said faintly, “Of course,”

Now that was a song _he_ had written. Straight out of his notebook. He glanced both ways. The thought of playing the song— _his song_ — in front of all these people was enough to make him want to march straight back home and give up on this whole endeavor. What were all these people doing here anyway? If this was how many people would be at a preliminary audition, he sure didn’t want to see how many would be at the real deal. That is if they even made it to the real deal. He wiped his palms on his jeans.

Cordelia nodded as if she knew what he was thinking, “It’s a good song,” she said, “Don’t worry. They’ll love it,” she smiled, waving her arm towards the crowd.

“Yeah,” he dug his hands into his pockets, “They will. They bloody will,” He tried to summon his courage, “Of course they will,” He turned back to Cordelia, and tried to flash a grin, “Let’s go,”

He ate the last of the burger, rolling the foil into a ball between his hands as he followed Cordelia.

* * *

“And then at the end of ‘October’,” he said, pointing to a spot on the sheet music, “Make sure you really bring the bassline out,”

“On measure forty-nine?” she said, leaning over the paper.

“No, on measure nineteen,” Alastair deadpanned, “Of course, measure forty-nine, which measure do you think I was pointing to?”

“No need to get worked up,” Cordelia muttered.

“And Ariadne,” he scanned the sheet again, “At the end of the song—”

“Make sure to stop playing before— what was it?” she said sarcastically, bringing her chin between her thumb and pointer finger, “oh, yes, the acapella section,”

“The acapella section is the best bit,” Alastair said brightly. “And we’re all set on ‘Immigrant Song’ as well,” he stated, folding the sheet music twice and tucking it in his pocket. “Make sure you go over that part near the end you always stumble on,” he said to Cordelia.

He swung his guitar over his shoulder, but instead of thumping comfortably against his back like it always did, he felt it hit something, or rather, _someone_ else.

“Hey!” he heard a voice say, “You hit me!”

“Sorry,” he said briskly, adjusting the guitar over his back the right way and turning around, “I didn’t mean to hit you so there’s no need to be rude,” he trailed off as he looked up and noticed who it was. He recognized him immediately. How could he forget?

The boy let out a short breath, rubbing his shoulder where Alastair’s guitar had hit him. “Alastair Carstairs,” he sneered, “funny seeing you here,”

“Matthew Fairchild,” he returned, his expression turning hard, “What are you doing here?”

“Competing,” Matthew said, eyes wandering to the guitar strapped to Alastair’s back, “I assume you must be too? Or is the only thing you know how to do with that guitar whacking people?” he asked innocently.

“I will have you know,” Alastair began angrily, “that I actuallyㅡ”

“Math!” Alastair turned his head to the direction of the voice calling for Matthew, his eyes resting on a tall boy with familiar yellow eyes.

“Goat Eyes Herondale’s here’s too,” Alastair commented, nostrils flaring, “You brought your whole entourage,”

“Alastair,” he said blankly, before recovering and furrowing his brows, “My name is _James_ ,”

“Well, generally bands don’t consist of one person. I had believed that was common knowledge,” Matthew continued, “But I suppose _you_ can’t be expected to have knowledge of anything, consideringㅡ”

“That’s quite enough,” Cordelia cut in sharply, “I don’t know who you are, but no one speaks to my brother like that,”

“You never mentioned you had a sister, Alastair,” Matthew said, “Is she nicer than you or is your entire family of a bad sort?”

“Don’t bring my family into this,” he snarled.

“I seem to remember you bringing _my_ family into everything first,” Matthew said, tilting his head.

Ariadne had been silent until this moment, but she linked her arm with Alastair’s, “Come on Alastair,” she said, pursing her lips together, her eyebrows knitting together, “These people clearly aren’t worth our time,”

Cordelia nodded, shifting her weight to her other foot.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said pleasantly.

“They just can’t get enough of you, can they?” Matthew smirked.

“That’s me,” Alastair rolled his eyes, “The regular Don Juan of London,”

And that was precisely the moment Charles chose to make his opportune entrance. “Alright, you’re going to be on in two acts,” he said, looking down at a paper, presumably an itinerary, “so make sure you have everything in order,”

“Hello, Charles,” Matthew said coldly, “What are you doing here? With _him_ ,”

Charles glanced up, his eyes narrowing, “Matthew. I’d almost forgotten you and your friends were going to be here,” he folded the paper in half, “I’m their manager,”

Everything clicked in place. How could he have been so stupid? Matthew _Fairchild_ , Charles _Fairchild_.

“You’re related,” he said, his eyes flitting between both of them, noticing their similar features.

“Much to my disappointment,” Matthew said. 

“So I assume your family and their connections got you in here?” the corner of Alastair’s mouth upturned, “Is the only thing _your_ voice is good for insulting people?” he added, in the same tone Matthew had been speaking in before.

“Matthew,” James said, his voice almost a whisper as he adjusted his thin wire-rimmed glasses and glanced to Cordelia, a troubled expression on his face, “We should go get ready for our turn,”

“Yeah,” Alastair nodded, “Listen to Herondale. Get ready for your turn and then get ready to pack up and go home,”

“Fine then,” Matthew snapped, “We’ll see who’s better on that stage won’t we? Or we’ll watch you make a fool of yourself up there, more likely,”

“Matthew and James!” a girl called to them, her boots thudding against the dirt as she walked towards them, adjusting a headset on her head over her brown hair, “You’re on in five!”

“We’re coming, Lucie,” Matthew yelled back, “See, we even have a better manager. You have stuffy Charles. We have the incredibly charming and dedicated Lucie Herondale,”

“Matthew,” James said, louder this time, “we have to go,”

“Make sure you’re watching, eh, Carstairs?” Matthew winked, as Lucie grabbed his arm and led him away.

* * *

Alastair stood in the back of the crowd next to Cordelia and Ariadne, his arms crossed, tapping his foot angrily on the ground, as he watched Matthew and James take the stage, as well as— was it Christopher? The aspiring scientist? And who he believed was Christopher’s sibling, Anna, who had short-cropped black hair and had her bass guitar strapped on her back. And another boy who Alastair couldn’t seem to recognize. He seemed much taller than any of Matthew’s friends that he remembered. His brown hair fell over his eyes as he adjusted the drum seat. Brown hair fell over his eyes as he looked down at his fretboard. Everything about him was so defined, like a sculpture he and Cordelia might’ve seen in a museum in Paris, or Rome, or Greece, on their many travels.

 _Matthew, James, Christopher, Anna,_ Alastair ran through his mental list, _Thomas,_

The thought suddenly became clear to him. That was Thomas? When he had last seen Thomas he’d been a scrubby schoolboy who’d occasionally trailed after him, much to Matthew’s chagrin, but now… When did he grow up and become soー

“Now introducing,” the announcer said, interrupting his thoughts, “Matthew Fairchild and the Merry Thieves!”  
“Of course he’d put his own name in the band name,” Alastair muttered darkly, forgetting all about Thomas. Fairchild was so infuriating it was truly a wonder that anyone would like to be around him.

“How do you know them?” Cordelia asked finally, breaking her silence, “And why do they hate you?”

“We knew each other at school,” he said, tearing his eyes from the stage, not answering her second question.

He still remembered his first year at the Academy. It had been hell. 

He still remembered coming home for Christmas and begging his parents not to send him back there.

“No,” Elias had said, his voice hard. He had always seemed to tower over Alastair back then, “I went there, and so will you. When the holidays are over, you will get on the train and go back,”

Alastair had done what he needed to and hated it. He had done enough. He just wanted to come home to Cordelia and his mother and play music with Ariadne without Matthew Fairchild, James Herondale, Christopher and, his mind tripped over the thought, _Thomas Lightwood_ , and his memories of the Academy coming back.

But it seemed it was too late for that.

Matthew took the microphone off the stand, and tapped it lightly, causing a loud feedback noise that caused Alastair to cringe. 

Alastair noticed he had no guitar or instrument of any kind. Though he knew it was petty, he couldn’t help but be pleased that Matthew was just going to sing, while he, being _infinitely_ more interesting and talented, would sing and play.

Matthew gestured to the rest of the Merry Thieves, and the music began. Alastair recognized the song immediately. It was ‘Ballroom Blitz’ by Sweet.

Alastair had actually quite liked this song before, but it was at this moment that he decided he hated it and never wanted to hear it ever again in his life.

“Oh, it’s been getting so hard,” Matthew sang, spinning the cord of the microphone around his fingers, “Livin’ with the things you do to me,”

“Herondale’s drumming has nothing on yours,” he nudged Ariadne, pointing to James, who was playing with such vigor that he kept continuously tilted his head back to keep his glasses from falling off.

Ariadne laughed, “And the tall bloke’s guitar playing has nothing on yours,” she added.

The tall bloke? Alastair looked back towards the stage, noticing Thomas once again. He bobbed his head back and forth, his hands moving expertly across the fretboard of the guitar as if it were an extension of himself. Alastair frowned.

“I see a man at the back, as a matter of fact, his eyes are red as the sun,” Matthew continued with a kind of dramaticism Alastair actually found quite admirable, “And a girl in the corner let no one ignore her, ‘cause she thinks she’s the passionate one!” he swung the mic around, almost tripping on the cord.

Alastair had to laugh.

Matthew and his band continued through the song, and Matthew did not trip on the cord again, much to Alastair’s disappointment.

He also had to admit they weren’t all that bad. At least not as bad as he’d been expecting. If anything, they certainly seemed passionate.

Anna played the bass surprisingly well, and Christopher, for an aspiring scientist, did play the rhythm guitar well.

“It’s, it’s a ballroom blitz,” Matthew sang, facing Thomas, who was playing a solo as Matthew rocked his head back and forth, “It’s, it’s a ballroom blitz!” Thomas’s lead guitar finished the song, the buzz of it echoing.

Not half bad at all.

“We have to get backstage,” Cordelia said, looking towards Alastair, “We’re up next and we won’t want to miss it,”

Alastair nodded. He was almost disappointed they wouldn’t get to see the last song in the Merry Thieves’ set.

* * *

“On!” the stage manager waved, “Get on the stage!’ He said something inaudible into his headset.

“Now,” the announcer called out in his bright cheery voice, “Shah!”

Alastair fastened his hands on his guitar, adjusting the guitar strap around him, as he walked on stage. He took another deep breath, catching sight of where the Merry Thieves were sitting. Matthew must’ve noticed him looking because he winked at him with a smirk.

“Good luck,” he mouthed, then turned and said something to James.

Alastair suddenly felt like his heart was in his throat. All these people here, and what if they did worse than Matthew? He didn’t think he could bear that. 

_And that’s why we’ll do better,_ a voice in his head piped out. Alastair took another deep breath and signaled to Ariadne and Alastair and began on the first guitar part in ‘Immigrant Song’ his fingers furiously dancing across the instrument to hit the right notes, “We come from the land of the ice and snow,” he began, feeling a sense of confidence overtake him, as it always did on stage, “From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow,”

Whenever Alastair was here, on stage, it always felt as if it were just him and the music. He could not recall why he had been nervous, or why he had cared that the Merry Thieves were right there, watching him, as he sang into the microphone. He moved to the music, utterly focused on the feeling of the thin metal strings on his fingers and the guitar pick between his thumb and forefinger. 

“So now you’d better stop and rebuild all your ruins,” he turned to face Cordelia, who didn’t mess up on the bassline like she had done so many times in rehearsal before. He grinned, “For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing,” 

He played the familiar guitar intro over and over until it was time to cut off. The applause was almost deafening, and he smiled widely, his eyes wandering back to the Merry Thieves.

Matthew looked absolutely infuriated, and the others? Well, they looked dumbstruck.

 _They haven’t seen everything yet,_ he thought. It was time to play his own song. It was time to play ‘October’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the merry thieves are here! things can only get better from here, eh?


End file.
